


A Letter to Mr. Sherlock Holmes

by TotallyUtterlySherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallyUtterlySherlocked/pseuds/TotallyUtterlySherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has a 16 year old American girl as his intern. Annabelle is sweet as honey, but Sherlock isn't so convinced. Is there something more to Annabelle, or is the world's only consulting detective losing his mind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: MY FIRST CASE!LOCK, :D
> 
> OK, so my cousin and I have been talking and she had literally ALL THE IDEAS in this story. I'm just writing it.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. I own nothing else. Don't sue me.

I got the call yesterday.

"Hello, is this Annabelle Green?" The voice on the other end of the phone was distinctly _not_ American, but not exactly the British accent I expected. "Yes," I replied, getting up from the end of my bed.

"Congratulations, you've been accepted as an intern for Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade!" I couldn't stop myself from breaking into a wide grin. "Really?" I asked excitedly. "Really," said the woman on the phone. "You'll need to be packed and ready by this time tomorrow; your plane leaves at 4:00 PM." Immediately I threw open my closet and started rummaging until I found my suitcases. I thanked the woman and hung up the phone.

When my mother got home later that night I was almost done packing. "Where're you running off to?" She teased while she stood in my doorway as I threw clothes into my bags. "I got the internship," I answered nonchalantly. Her face froze, then she started laughing. "Oh my God, really?" I nodded. "Annabelle, that's wonderful!" She darted inside and gave me a quick squeeze. "I leave tomorrow afternoon," I told her, continuing to pack. "Well," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'll let you finish packing then." I smiled at her as she closed the door.

* * *

Waking up the next morning, it took me a minute to remember what had happened yesterday. I thought I'd dreamt it, but when I got out of bed and saw my suitcases neatly lined up against my door frame, I realized that it was true

I was going to London tonight.

I would be interning for New Scotland Yard.

After I got dressed and had breakfast, I went back into my room and pulled out the picture I kept of my father underneath my pillow.

I ran my fingertips over it gently. "I'll make you proud," I promised it in a whisper.

* * *

I called a cab to take me to the airport. After I made it onto the plane (which took _way_ longer than it should've; I mean, didn't anyone tell the airport I was coming?), I settled into my seat. The flight attendant told us to buckle up, and then we were airborne.

As soon as I could, I reclined my seat and closed my eyes. But I wasn't sleeping. I wouldn't let myself sleep until we'd landed.

I cursed my inability to use my phone, but it wasn't like they didn't already know. I _had_ texted them right before getting on the plane.

_**Will be in London by tonight. Plan to be executed starting tomorrow. -AM** _

I pulled out a manilla folder. Inside were pictures; pictures of the world's only consulting detective and his blogger.

Sherlock Holmes was going to pay _dearly_ for what he'd done.

He killed my father.


	2. An American Intern in New Scotland Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeah, I use cheesy titles sometimes. FUN LITTLE CONTEST: people who can tell me (in a review please!) what book this title rips off get a shout out in the next chapter.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. Seriously. Please don't sue me.

"Sherlock for God's sake, would you slow down?! We're early enough as it is!"

"There's no TIME, John! There's been a murder and I know Lestrade would've called us anyhow." Sherlock protested, practically sprinting down the hallway to Lestrade's office.

John rolled his eyes. "Prat," he muttered when they reached the door. Sherlock simply strode in without knocking.

"Oh. My. GOD!"

And was immediately tackled by a very pretty, _very enthusiastic_ teenager.

"You're Sherlock Holmes!" An _American_ teenager. Sherlock gave her a strained smile, shooting John furtive looks that cried 'help me here!'. John grinned back cheerfully.

"Um, wow, it's so great to meet you." The girl's hands were shaking. "My name's, uh, Annabelle. Annabelle Green. I'm an intern for Detective Lestrade." She smiled nervously.

"Pleasure," replied Sherlock, sounding like it was very much not.

"Good to meet you," John said, glaring at his flatmate.

"Look this is a huge favor to ask but, um, my friends back home...they'll never believe me unless I show them proof I've met you. D'you mind if I get a picture with you?" Annabelle bit her lip nervously. Looking horrified, Sherlock gaped at John. John narrowed his eyes. Sighing, Sherlock pasted another smile on his face. "Of course," he said through gritted teeth.

Annabelle rummaged through her purse for a few minutes. She pulled out a digital camera and...oh God, John had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"And..." She bit her lip again. "Would you wear this?" And she produced a deerstalker. "No," snapped Sherlock immediately. Annabelle looked crestfallen. " _Sherlock_ ," growled John. "John that hat is-" "Sherlock, just wear the damn hat for one picture." There was a brief staring match which John won quite easily. Sighing heavily, Sherlock snatched the deerstalker from Annabelle and plopped it onto his head.

"John, would you mind taking it?" She handed him her camera. "No, not at all." She moved to stand next to Sherlock while John stood back a bit and angled the lens. "Alright you two, smile!" When Sherlock didn't, John rolled his eyes. " _Smile_ , dammit." "I'm already wearing the deerstalker," growled Sherlock. "Don't. Push. It."

And so Annabelle received a picture of herself, smiling beautifully, and Sherlock, scowling.

* * *

"So how long are you here for, Annabelle?" John asked after she put her camera away. "Until the end of August," she replied. "Wow," he said quietly. "Your parents will miss you." The girl smiled. "Yeah, but it's a great opportunity. I'm so lucky to be here, in London." She sounded awestruck. John grinned. She turned to Sherlock, looking nervous again. "I-I know you're really good at deductions and I was wondering if you could, um...deduce me?" Her face turned pink.

Sherlock actually looked pleased. John rolled his eyes. "He'd never pass up an opportunity to show off." After glaring at him, Sherlock spoke in rapid-pace:

"Judging by the stain on your shirt, you had a rather unsatisfying breakfast of a soda you had on the plane." He paused for a second and peered closer. "Coke. You've got a rip in your trousers which indicates you live with several siblings, all obviously younger than you as they were careless with your things. You've also got baggy pockets, so obviously a single income home. Your mother has to work multiple jobs, leaving you in charge of your siblings most of the time. Your mother works over 15 hours a day to keep all of you happy. Yes, her husband could be lazy, but then he would take care of the children, not you. Although you don't mind caring for your siblings, you blame your father for their divorce and his lack of involvement in your lives; he doesn't even pay child support. You try to get away from home when your mother is present because you also subconsciously blame her, but you try to cover it up by saying you're going out with friends, when really you just go to the park and sit for hours, because with all the extra work you have to do you don't have time for friends." He finished, nodded, and smiled.

Annabelle stared at him for a minute, then slowly returned his smile. "Very good, Sherlock," she praised. His smile broadened. "Almost all of it wrong, but then I suppose that was rather the point." She cocked her head. "My parents aren't divorced; my dad committed suicide a few years ago, and I'm an only child. I've also got plenty of friends." Her voice went cold with the last sentence.

Sherlock looked thunderstruck. "Anyway," Annabelle continued, her voice back to its cheerful tone. "You were here for Detective Lestrade, right?" John nodded since Sherlock seemed momentarily incapable of speech. "He's in a meeting right now, but you're welcome to wait in here for him."

At that moment, a phone began to ring. It had a _very_ familiar ring tone. As _Stayin' Alive_ played on, Sherlock looked more and more horrified. Annabelle swayed a little on her feet, seemingly dancing to the ringtone. "Sorry," she said. "I love this song, don't you?" Then she answered "Annabelle. Yes. I was just talking to Smarty-Pants and Do-Gooder. Uh-huh. Excellent, thanks." The entire time she was speaking, Sherlock shot John wild looks while putting two fingers behind his head like devil horns. John shrugged and put his palms up. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock hissed "She is the _devil_!" right after Annabelle hung up the phone. She frowned and put her phone back in her pocket. She looked as though she were close to tears.

John looked furious. "Annabelle, would you excuse us for a minute?" She glanced at him, still looking hurt. "Oh, yeah; sure."

* * *

John stormed out of the office after Sherlock. "What," demanded John, glaring at Sherlock. "The _hell_ was that?!" Sherlock looked...frightened. "John," he said quietly, nervously. "That's _his_ ring tone!" Immediately John softened. "Sherlock," John spoke slowly, as though talking to a small child. "Moriarty is dead. You _saw_ him shoot himself." "Yes," snapped Sherlock. "And _you_ saw me jump off a building!"

Immediately Sherlock shut his mouth. John set his jaw. "Yeah," he said in a deadly voice. "I did." And he marched into the office, leaving Sherlock alone in the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Don't forget about the little contest loves! Please review and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	3. His Name Was Richard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story is so much fun to write, guys, it really is. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review, they mean SO much and I really appreciate them, like, a lot.
> 
> Enjoy!

It took John at least ten minutes to stop shaking. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this angry.

Actually, he could, but he wasn't going to think about that right now.

When he calmed down, he slowly made his way back into Lestrade's office and was nearly tackled by Annabelle.

"I'm sorry John, oh my God, I'm so so sorry!" Her voice was muffled by his shoulder. He awkwardly patted her back and she seemed to snap out of her reverie. Sheepishly, she let him go. "Also sorry about that," she murmured. "Probably not the best idea, huh?" John smiled a little. "It's fine," he said, and it sounded genuine. Annabelle hesitantly returned his smile before looking worried again. "Was it the nickname thing? It's just something my friends and I do, like the friend I was talking to is Creative Cat, and I'm Power Princess..." She trailed off. He shook his head. "No, he's just a bit...off, today." Annabelle looked dubious and she opened her mouth to say something but was promptly interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

"Mis-I mean, Detective Inspector Lestrade! Good to see you out of the meeting." She beamed at him. Annabelle darted over and produced a calender that looked like a rainbow had thrown up on it. "I took the liberty of organizing your calender," she said dismissively when both Greg and John looked at her curiously. "Orange is 'not your division', red is stuff other people asked you to look into, namely Anderson and Donovan..." She shuddered a little. "Green is your division, and pink is personal. Oh, and Mrs. Lestrade called. She wants you to pick up something for dinner; anything, so long as it isn't fish or chicken... _again_."

Lestrade blinked a few times. "Wow, um, thank you." He looked over at John. "Where's Sherlock? Thought he needed the case files." John smiled bitterly. "So did I. Apparently he needed to go do something more important. I'll take them though. I'll give them to him whenever I see him again." Lestrade gave him a doubtful frown, but John fixed his gaze on a point just above the detective inspector's head.

Sighing, Lestrade started to rifle through drawers. Annabelle motioned John with her eyes to follow her through a short corridor to a much smaller, neater office. "This is mine," she said proudly.

"It's...nice," replied John. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Listen, Annabelle...I'm really sorry about what Sherlock said about your father." She smiled a little sadly. "It's...well, it's not okay, exactly, but it's better than it was." Her eyes were looking out the window but her mind was obviously miles away. "His name was Richard," she said in a quiet, distant voice. Once again, John was saved replying by a knock at the door. He and Annabelle made their way back into Lestrade's office.

Greg handed John a thick tan file. John nodded his thanks. "Things are getting weird, John." Lestrade looked worried for just a minute. "It's London," replied the doctor, smiling. "Of course things are weird." And Lestrade just shook his head. "No, not London weird. Murders have been on the rise for weeks now, and none of them are the same. No signs of a serial killer, no signs of gang violence. The bloody number of them is sky high and I can't understand why..." He ran a frustrated hand through his greyed hair.

"Well," said John. "That's why Sherlock needs this, right?" He waved the folder in his hand.

* * *

Idiots. All of them; gullible, naive idiots.

As _Greg_ (gag me please, I loved getting on his nerves; God, his face when I pulled out that calender...the pet peeves that ordinary people have are so amusing) and John jabber on about the murders, I slip into my office and grin. "You've no idea, do you?" I muse to myself. I rest my elbow on my knee and prop my chin on my palm. My phone starts to ring and I immediately set it to vibrate: the ring tone has done its job, and now it's just getting annoying. I glance at the screen and smile to myself:

_**Next phase beginning. Hope you're ready for this. -SM** _

**_Of course I'm ready, idiot. Go ahead. And don't forget the letter. -AM_ **

I quickly delete the message. I always err on the side of caution, even if I am dealing with imbeciles. Wouldn't want Sherlock to see _that_ message, it would ruin all our fun.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't hear the insistent ringing of the landline on my desk. I let it ring for a bit longer, grinning. Now, this is my time. My father had his chance; now it's time to make these stories mine.

* * *

Annabelle came back into Lestrade's office, slightly pale. "There's been another murder. The initial sweep turned up blank; no prints, no stains, hell, the killer even wiped off all of the wine glasses." Lestrade looked back at her, confused. "Wine glasses?" Annabelle nodded. "Yep. The body was found right in one of the booths at Angelo's. Bullet straight through the head. John..." Annabelle paused, seemingly weighing the positives and negatives of what she was about to say. "I know you may not want to speak to Sherlock right now but...call it gut instinct: we are definitely going to need him."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out to you guys. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review! I love feedback.
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	4. Not the Only Professional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi! I really hope you guys are enjoying the story so far; it's hard to tell because no one else has reviewed, :c I REALLY love reviews guys. Even if they tell me my writing is shit, at least it's feedback. So please review this chapter once you're done reading it!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I only own Annabelle. Please don't sue me.

"How'd the Freak get here already?" Donovan sounded a little surprised.

John looked just as surprised. "I...have no idea. I haven't even texted him," Sherlock glanced up from where he was already examining the body. " _Murder_ , John. Do you honestly think I need a text to bring me here?" He rolled his eyes and John swore he heard him mutter " _Idiot_ " under his breath.

"What've you got so far?" Lestrade was close behind John and he stood with his arms crossed, gazing down at the body.

* * *

The victim was a man in his mid-forties, short but fairly muscled. His eyes, which in this light appeared brown, were wide open. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream. The cause of his death was almost immediately apparent: a single gunshot wound to the head.

"Poor sod," murmured John, while Sherlock fairly laughed in glee. Annabelle, who was leaning against the door, looked almost bored. John broke off from the group and went over to her. "You alright? You seem to be taking this pretty well considering there's a man lying dead right in front of you." He gestured to the body. Annabelle nodded. "I'm sort of used to death," she shrugged. "My mother's a police officer, and when I was younger I was constantly around her office. She even took me to a few crime scenes. And my father...he committed suicide, of course. Mom's not one to hide things, so she showed me all the pictures..." She bit her lip a little. For the second time that day, John opened his mouth, intending to say "I'm sorry", when he was seized by the arm and pulled away from the door.

"John, I need you," said Sherlock dismissively. "Oh, _now_ you need me?" "Obviously," replied Sherlock, squatting to examine the gunshot wound.

* * *

"Something's not right..." Sherlock muttered. "This is too clean, far too clean a shot for anyone, even an expert marksman to make." He sat back on his heels and ran his eyes over the body.

Suddenly he sprang up from the floor and over to John. "What?" Sherlock was inches away from him, studying his face. "He looks like you," Sherlock said in a quiet, horrified voice. John laughed a little. " _Him_?" He looked at the body. "He looks nothing like me, Sherlock! His hair's the entirely wrong color for one, and I'm definitely not _that_ short." Sherlock almost smiled but stopped himself. "Minor details John. Look at his face. Don't just look. _Observe_."

John made his way over to the man and examined his face. "Is my nose really that big?" Sherlock sighed. "You're missing the point, John. This is meant to be a substitute for _you_." He sounded almost frantic. "What?" John lead Sherlock a bit away from the crowd.

"Look, Sherlock." He said quietly. "I know you're really paranoid about this 'Moriarty's not dead' thing, but this? _This_ is the kind of behavior that would get you kicked out of this place." But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was still staring at the body. "John, do you remember our first case?" John nodded. "Of course. The cabbie." Sherlock pointed. "And that's where we sat the night you lost your cane, right before we chased the cab. He's sitting right where you were." "Amazing," blurted John before he could stop himself. "I can't believe you remember that." He shook his head. "But still, it's...it's not _me,_ Sherlock. As ridiculous as you'll think it is, I honestly think that this is all just coincidence."

And he wished he hadn't said that. Sherlock's face darkened. "There are no coincidences," he said coldly. "Never."

* * *

"...based upon the neatness of the entrance and exit wounds, it's obvious that this was intended to mirror a military style firing squad." "Hang on," sneered Anderson. "There's only one gunshot wound. How could it've been a squad?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "Yet again, Anderson, I am astounded by your observation skills. There was indeed only one gunshot wound. You'll note however, I said _mirror_. Now kindly shut your mouth and don't speak again. Leave it to the professional." He smirked. Annabelle laughed quietly from her spot by the door, and Sherlock frowned at her. "At least give Detective Inspector Lestrade a little credit," she said with a smile. Only Sherlock noticed that it didn't reach her eyes.

* * *

I hope you'll get used to the idea of not being the only "professional" in the room soon, Sherlock. Because you're not, and as long as I'm here, you never will be.

* * *

"Okay then," said Lestrade, breaking the awkward silence. "Anderson, collect a sample from our unlucky victim here." "And please," growled Sherlock. "Try not to contaminate anything more than you already have." Anderson smiled bitterly. "If you think I do such a fucking bad job, why don't you get the sample yourself?" Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Fine," he replied coolly. He approached the body and made quite a show out of collecting some dried blood that was left caked around the wound. He was bent low to the floor, when suddenly he saw something under the table.

"Find some interesting gum down there, Sherlock?" John's voice startled him so badly he almost smacked his head on the bottom of the table. "No, it was nothing." Sherlock dismissed quickly. He immediately filed a note to himself in his mind palace: this required further investigation. Preferably, with no one else around.

* * *

Meanwhile, seeing Sherlock's investigation, Annabelle smiled slowly. This time, it reached her eyes too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please please review! They're like a good serial killer for Sherlock, :)


	5. Yet Another Fairytale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but Annabelle. Please don't sue me.

"Where are you going?" John glanced up from his laptop to find Sherlock putting on his coat and scarf. "Out," grunted the detective. "That's incredibly helpful Sherlock, thanks for all that informa-" John's sarcasm was immediately silenced by the sound of the door slamming.

He shook his head and turned back to the screen. He'd somehow found himself spending the last few hours doing a little research on Annabelle and her father. The suicide seemed to have been kept fairly quiet, because he found next to nothing about Richard's death. No, looking up 'richard green death' seemed to only bring him information about the fictional Richard Brook. And _that_ was enough to make John close his laptop with a huff.

* * *

It was easy enough to get back into Angelo's; all Sherlock had to do was pick the lock. No security systems to bypass, no guards, nothing. How dull.

As soon as he'd taken a cursory glance around ( _Anderson ruined any evidence on that floor and that booth idiot how does he even have a place on this_ _force_ ), Sherlock threw himself on the floor and reached out a hand to slide the envelope out from under the table.

He examined the envelope first. It was thick, cream colored. This looked like paper ripped straight out of the 20th century. How curious. His mouth went dry when he read the front. 'A Letter To: Mr. Sherlock Holmes'.

The seal, though, now _that_ was fascinating. Classic wax, but the design...oh yes, this was interesting. Blood red but marked with an elegant cursive white 'M'. That was enough to make Sherlock uneasy, but then he saw what was above the 'M'.

A crown.

* * *

He hated to destroy the envelope, but...then again, it was clearly addressed to him. And he wasn't very good at denying himself anything that he saw as _his_.

So he pulled his pocket-knife out of his coat and slit open the letter.

* * *

_Hello. Are you ready for the story?_

_This is the second story of Sir Boast-A-Lot._

_Sir Boast-A-Lot was exiled from the kingdom, never to return again after he was proven to be a liar. But his faithful page wouldn't lose faith in Sir Boast-A-Lot, and never gave up on him._

_And one day, Sir Boast-A-Lot returned. He had even more outlandish tales of dragons he'd slain. This time, everyone ate. It. Up._

_One day, Sir Boast-A-Lot and his page vanquished the most terrible dragon of them all. The dragon's daughter saw them, but she knew killing Sir Boast-A-Lot wouldn't soothe her rage. She decided to have a little fun with them._

_But that isn't the end of Sir Boast-A-Lot's story. No._

_It's only the beginning._

_PS: I guess he really DID have bad days..._

* * *

The cursive writing was neat and perfect enough to be a word processor font. He recognized that handwriting. He'd never seen it in cursive of course, but that, coupled with the period in Mr. marking the writer as American...well, Sherlock had a good idea of who was behind all this.


	6. A Perfectly Lovely Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave me a review in that lovely empty box down there!
> 
> Enjoy!

"Molly, what are you doing here on a Saturday?" She let out a little scream. "Don't _do_ that," she panted, laughing breathlessly. He looked confused. "Do what?"

Molly rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Startle me. You're like some kind of ghost. One minute you're not here, the next..." She waved her hands about. "Here you are." Sherlock blinked at her. "Never mind," she muttered, turning away from him.

"But...few people work on Saturdays, you are. Why?" Her laughter made him scowl. "You can't deduce it?" She sounded amused. "I could, but John says it's...not polite to do without permission." Molly's face softened. "Well, um...thanks for being polite, I suppose. Death never really takes a weekend and no one else wanted to work so here I am!" She spoke fast, sounding nervous. A little like the old Molly. "I'm here to see the John Doe you just received." Sherlock said after an awkward silence.

She nodded and scurried off to retrieve the body. When she wheeled it out, he immediately tuned her out and scrutinized the body.

* * *

"What was the official cause of death?" Sherlock asked from his place crouched next to the body. "Exactly what it looks like," replied Molly. "So...major trauma to the brain stem, some damage to the thalamus, but the brain stem injury is what killed him." Molly nodded. "He died instantly," she said quietly. "At least he didn't suffer much." Sherlock looked up at her. He shook his head and picked up one of the body's hands. He pointed at the bruising pattern around their victim's wrist. "He was bound, probably with his hands behind his back, for an extended period. Also," And he moved down the body to its knees. "Look at the state of his knees."

She peered closer. "He was kneeling on a hard surface...but, he was sitting in the booth, wasn't he?"

"They moved him. Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Do you have any of the bullets in evidence?" He hoped she did. And that Anderson didn't completely ruin them. "Yeah, let me go grab them." At that moment, Annabelle walked into the morgue, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Actually," said Molly. "My assistant can grab them for you."

Annabelle looked in their direction, startled. "Oh. Sorry, what do you need? I was in the bathroom. Bodies need such...mundane things, don't they? Hello, Sherlock." She beamed at him.

While Molly explained to Annabelle what was going on, Sherlock was digging his nails into his palm so hard he drew blood. As soon as the door shut behind Annabelle, he turned on Molly.

"Why the _hell_ is she working here?" He snarled. Molly looked puzzled. "What are you talking about?" "Why is she your assistant!?" He demanded. "She...she's a perfectly lovely girl Sherlock! You know her story, and death doesn't...bother her anymore, so Greg," she blushed a little. "Thought this would be a great place for her to work when she wasn't needed at the Yard!"

Sherlock blinked at her in amazement. Then his eyes went cold. "I thought you were smarter than they were." He smiled bitterly. "I was wrong."

Molly's face fell for a minute before she tightened her jaw and stalked in front of him. "Don't you dare," she said in a quiet, deadly voice. "Don't you _dare_ talk about us that way. Not me, not her, not anyone."

"She's not who you think she is," he told her, just as quietly. "Not at all who you think she is."

She tilted her head up and stared at him for a few moments. "I don't care," Her voice was defiant.

They turned their heads in unison when the door opened. Annabelle walked in carrying two plastic bags. "Sorry," she said softly. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Molly replied quickly. "Nothing at all." And she turned her back on Sherlock.

* * *

"A cell phone?" Annabelle nodded. "Yeah. Apparently Anderson had already bagged it by the time you got there," She shuddered a little while he rolled his eyes. _Leave it to Anderson to ignore protocol_ , he thought. "Does it work?" Sherlock asked dryly as he examined it. "Um, I'm not sure actually."

He stared. "I wouldn't want to ruin it for you," she said innocently. "After all, you are the professional." She smiled sweetly at him.

He ignored her and turned on the phone. His lips quirked up into a smile for a brief moment as the screen lit up. Silence quickly filled the morgue as Sherlock started scrolling through the phone's data.

"So what do you think, Sherlock?" Molly asked after a while. He almost didn't respond, but damn it all to hell if his pride didn't get in the way first.

"Disposable cell phone, interesting. Suggests that whoever killed him wanted to have a last conversation. Why?" He pressed his palms together and touched them to his lips.

"They wanted to prove something," Annabelle said suddenly. He jumped; he had almost forgotten that she was there. Almost. "What?" He said harshly.

Now she jumped. She looked...oddly frazzled all of a sudden. Her eyes were wild as she scrolled through the phone. But why did she look so- _oh_. Yes. _This_ was how she was going to play the game.

"Well…I mean…it just seems pretty obvious," Annabelle murmured, "why else would the last moment of his life be taken up by a measly phone call if they weren't trying to prove something? Most killers go for those cheesy one liners, like in action movies. Or they initiate a conversation themselves, not just use a phone...or maybe there's a leader somewhere who wanted to have the final word...oh."

She stopped, looking at the incredibly skeptic expression on Sherlock's face. "Don't listen to me. I probably don't make any sense or anything." Annabelle finished sounding doubtful. "Oh, don't be silly, Annabelle!" Molly assured her. "That's much better than I could have done. You may even be on Sherlock's lev-" "If you don't mind, I would like you to please shut up." Sherlock interrupted. "Excuse me?" "I need to go to my mind palace. Kindly escort yourself from the room at your leisure, if not sooner."

Sherlock went still and quiet. "We'd better get going, he won't be doing anything for a while." Molly tried to coax Annabelle out of the room. "Oh, but all this stuff is left out; someone could get hurt. I'll clean it up and you can go do whatever you need to do. I'll join you when I'm done." Annabelle turned back towards the room and started washing knives off. "It's fine, I can do tha-" Molly was cut off for the second time in less than five minutes. "No, I insist. I'm the one who's supposed to be helping you out. Including the boring work like cleaning the knives."

Molly looked doubtful, but if there was one thing she learned from the one day Annabelle had been with her, it was that once Annabelle had her mind set on something, she wouldn't change her mind. No, it would be impossible to dissuade her. So, with a shrug, Molly walked out of the morgue. Once Molly finally left, Annabelle turned to Sherlock. "I know you're not in your 'mind palace'," She put air quotes around the words 'mind palace'. "Surprising how you could fool Molly, since she has known you longer than I have, but... guess you do put on quite the performance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please review! Thank you so much for reading!


	7. Surprise me, Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! Please review and tell me what you think!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but Annabelle. Please don't sue me.

Sherlock opened his eyes immediately and jumped off the stool he had been sitting on. After a brief silence, he spoke. "Well? What would you like? Some applause?" He waved his arms around. "Of course not, Sherlock. That would be silly and childish." Annabelle said in a patronizing tone. "No, I just want to talk." She leaned her elbows on the counter. "About what?" He demanded. "What do you think is going on with the phone, and the one man firing squad and what not?" Annabelle seemed...genuinely curious. Hmm…Sherlock thought it best to just play along. Gauge the enemy. "I thought you would know all about the killing and the John Doe." Sherlock said slowly. Annabelle shrugged and grinned. "Maybe. Maybe not. Surprise me, Sherlock."

He smirked at her. Then he started to pace, and all the while words poured from his mouth at a pace no 'idiot' would ever be able to follow.

"In order to fracture the skull the bullet needed to have around 16 to 350 foot pounds of pressure. But that wouldn't be enough to penetrate, no, so we're looking for something far more powerful than that. It's also obvious that there was little additional damage inside of the skull; the bullet passed right through. What does that mean? It means whoever shot our victim here used ball ammo, as it's very unlikely that it would bounce around inside of his skull." He stopped suddenly and turned to face her. "Tell me," he said, approaching her. "What model gun was used?"

She cocked her head to the side like a confused dog. "Well," she began, wandering closer to the corpse and bending to examine the inside of his skull. "Since this was meant to be a firing squad, would've needed to be a rifle. Most likely a British gun, guns are a terrible nuisance to get across the border." Annabelle rolled her eyes.

"So, that narrows our choices. Very few firing squads are used anymore, so when were they used? Yes, the 1800s, but that wouldn't get you the ball ammo you'd need. The bullets found were .303 cartridges, and based on our analysis, it came from a Lee-Enfield MK.I." She gave him a shit-eating grin, and Sherlock swore he heard something snap inside of him.

The tension and silence in the room were so thick you could have cut them both with a knife. Sherlock stared at Annabelle while she stared back at him, neither of their faces showing any emotion. Finally, Sherlock said: "I don't know what you're playing at, and don't worry, soon enough I will...but know that you will never fool me. Everyone else is too gullible and idiotic, and you know that don't you? You know exactly what you're doing. Like father, like daughter."

Annabelle's face hardened. "Don't you dare talk about my father like you knew him. He was brilliant, far more brilliant than you'll ever be." She smiled maliciously. "You're so idiotic and you can't even see it. He put too much faith in you, my father. He thought you were both alike, but no. He was better than you can ever, ever hope to become."

Sherlock laughed humorlessly. "Your ego is bigger than the whole of London, Annabelle. That might get you into trouble. I'd be careful," He put on his coat and scarf. "Never know what might be out there to get you."

"I could say the same about you." She said smoothly. "Don't worry about me though. I'm a big girl now. Death does that to a person. Changes them. Just ask John, he'll tell you the same thing." This last sentence was said with particular relish.

Sherlock flinched as though she'd struck him. He pressed his lips together and turned away, stalking out of the morgue without another word to her.

Annabelle just smiled. She turned to the pile of still dirty knives and sighed. "An intern's work is never done,"


	8. The Insufferable Intern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello! I hope you all are enjoying this so far. Please review and tell me what you think!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I only own Annabelle. Please don't sue me.

When John woke up on Monday morning, he couldn't remember why he felt uneasy. After he got to the kitchen, however, he remembered.

Sherlock hadn't come back to the flat since the crime scene on Saturday.

It wasn't like this was anything new; Sherlock frequently ran off on his own, leaving John with no way of getting in touch with him until he decided to come back. But John was worried that Sherlock would do something stupid. Well, more stupid than usual at least.

He had just poured himself a cup of tea when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

John sighed and ran his hands over his face before he ventured into the sitting room. By the time Sherlock got inside he was already reading the paper.

The detective snorted. "Really, John? You never read the paper unless you're trying to ignore something." John looked up at him, his face blank. "I read the paper all the time, Sherlock," he said mildly from behind the newsprint.

Sherlock did not dignify this with a response. He hadn't taken off his coat yet, or scarf, so John wasn't all that surprised when he heard Sherlock say: "I need to go back to the Yard." There was silence. Then, "Alright."

Silence, longer this time.

A pause. "Will you come with me?"

John smiled. "Of course."

* * *

When the two of them got to Lestrade's office, they found Annabelle sitting at his desk, scribbling furiously on a pad of legal paper. She barely glanced up when she heard them walk in, but once she noticed them, she smiled sincerely. "Hi guys!" Annabelle threw down her pen and jumped to her feet. Sherlock didn't bother to reply, nor smile. John almost said something, but the look in Sherlock's eyes stopped him. "Where's Greg?" He asked instead. "Oh," murmured Annabelle, picking up the rainbow puke calender. "Says here...that he shouldn't have anything going on." She shrugged. "I'm not sure. Maybe something came up."

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Oh for God's sake. You are his _intern_ , shouldn't that mean you know where he is at all times?" His tone was harsh, almost like he was reprimanding Annabelle.

To her credit, John thought, Annabelle was unflappable and didn't look offended. "Nobody's perfect, Sherlock," she said nonchalantly. The detective's eyes hardened and he opened his mouth to reply, but John elbowed him hard in the side.

"Ow," Sherlock muttered, glaring at the doctor. John smiled innocently at him and turned back to Annabelle. He looked ready to speak, but then his mobile rang. Sherlock and John both frowned, John's mobile _never_ rung.

"Hello?" The doctor answered. He furrowed his brow as the caller spoke. "Mary, what's going on?" Sherlock gave him a cutting glance. "Mary?" He asked aloud. "Aren't you two in some sort of...disagreement?" John covered the mouthpiece briefly with his hand. "You know we are." He returned his attention to the phone. "Mary, is everything okay?" There was a longer pause this time.

Then John broke into a wide grin. "Hang on a second," he said quickly. "I'll be right back," he told the room at large before leaving.

Sherlock immediately invaded Annabelle's personal space. The girl barely flinched. "You know exactly where Lestrade is, don't you?" He growled. She grinned wickedly at him. "I might," she said in a sing-song voice. "Cut the bullshit," he demanded. Annabelle cocked her head. "I don't know what you mean," She sounded genuinely confused.

"Yes you do," he said dismissively, moving behind her to look at the legal pad. "Just like you know why I don't believe this is your handwriting." She blinked at him. "What?"

John opened the door before Sherlock had the chance to answer. "I've gotta go, Sherlock," he said breathlessly. "Why?" John smiled stupidly. "Because Mary is going to have a baby!" Annabelle squealed and clapped a little. "Congratulations John!" She grinned at him. John smiled back. "Thanks Annabelle," Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "Fine, go. How dull of you, though, really John. It's not as though she's already in labor." Now John rolled his eyes. "I'll be back, idiot." Sherlock's eyes hardened. "I _know_ ," he snapped. "I was able to manage perfectly well before you came along. I think I can handle a bit of time alone." The doctor didn't answer, he just left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock was in Annabelle's face again. "This," He pointed to her printed words. "Isn't how you normally write, is it? Your father made sure you were educated in everything, not just your average education though, no, never." He smirked. "He taught you how to write flawlessly, in perfect print and perfect cursive." She stared at him. "Show. Me." Sherlock growled.

Annabelle regarded him coldly. "Fine," she said nonchalantly. She bent over the legal pad again, but her writing was much slower now.

After a few minutes, she straightened and stepped back, motioning for Sherlock to take a look.

His blood pressure shot _through the roof_ when he saw it. It was messy, imperfect cursive. The same level of cursive as any _ordinary_ sixteen year old.

"You... _this isn't your handwriting!_ " Sherlock roared. Without thinking, he drew back an open palm and...

**SMACK!**

* * *

What an idiot. Really, Sherlock, my father would never go so far as to hit a _lady_ , no matter how...infuriating she may have been. Dear me, Mr. Holmes...dear me.

* * *

Annabelle's cheek stung and it was bright red. As soon as Sherlock snatched his hand away, the door opened, and Lestrade walked in. Right on cue, Annabelle started sobbing.

Lestrade looked between them with an exasperated look on his face. "What the bloody hell did you do to my intern, Sherlock?" He demanded.

Between (over-done) sobs, Annabelle choked out: "H-he slapped m-me!"

Any kindness on Lestrade's face vanished, and he whirled on Sherlock. "Get out," he growled."Get the hell out of my office before I hit you myself. I'll be having words with you later but for now...out!" He shoved the detective bodily into the hallway, and Sherlock was left blinking at the closed door.


	9. Idiotic Inspectors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Enjoy!

When Lestrade turned away from the door, Annabelle was taking her coat off the hook and packing up her things. Her back was facing him. "You OK?" He asked. When she didn't respond, he took a step closer. "If you want to press charges, I think you'd have a good shot of winning." She shook her head quickly. "No, I don't want to cause trouble..." The pain in her voice was evident. "Are you sure? The bloody idiot just _hit_ you. He's lucky I don't get him removed from all cases right now." "No," she said immediately. "No, don't do that! I'm sure he was just having a really bad day..." Annabelle's voice trailed off. Lestrade looked at her suspiciously, but said nothing.

She turned to face him, cheek still blazing red. "Look...if it's okay with you, I'd like to walk around for the rest of the day. I don't think I'll be of much use here." "Of course," Lestrade answered, looking concerned. "I'll make sure I talk with Sherlock later on." She smiled a little. "Is there anything you need me to do while I'm out? Groceries or anything? Or maybe I can clean the flat a little?" He shook his head. "No, don't worry about it. Just...take your time."

* * *

 _Take your time_. Right. God, he's more stupid than I'd thought. Although I _am_ a very good actress...no matter. He's starting to irritate me, quite a lot actually. If I say I'm fine, leave it at that! Just shut up, thank God I left when I did.

As soon as I'm in a secluded alley (I had someone scope it out weeks beforehand, it was perfect to make these sorts of phone calls and do other...business), I pull out my phone. Not the one with the bright pink case covered in rhinestones, but an old flip one that looks like it's from 2003.

"Hello," I say crisply after he answers. "Change of plans. Different victim order...this one's annoyed me."

* * *

Lestrade tried to call Sherlock after he was sure Annabelle had left. She didn't need to hear what he planned to say. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was avoiding him. "Bloody asshole," Lestrade muttered under his breath. He tried John next. "Greg," the doctor answered shortly. "Look, can this wait? I'm a little busy right now."

"No, it can't wait. You need to hear this, John." And he immediately recounted the slapping incident, including the fact that Annabelle couldn't even stay in the office for the rest of the day.

When he finished, John was so quiet that Lestrade had to check to make sure he hadn't hung up. "I'll call you back." John said finally, and his voice was so full of rage that Lestrade almost felt sorry for the ass-chewing Sherlock was about to receive.

* * *

"John," answered Sherlock in a cheerful tone. "I'm in with Mary now," John hissed. "But I'm heading out the door." "What's going on?" The detective asked, sounding concerned. "What the hell were you thinking?" John hissed. "Why the _hell_ would you slap a sixteen year old girl!?" He continued in that vein for a bit, not even letting Sherlock get a word in edge-wise. His phone beeped, letting him know someone else was trying to call. "Hang on a second, Sherlock. Don't you _dare_ hang up on me," he threatened. "What, Greg?" John snapped when he was connected to the Detective Inspector.

"There's been another murder," Lestrade said quickly. "A really bad one, a really _weird_ one. As much as I hate to say this, we need Sherlock here _now_."


	10. A Not So Simple Suicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. I don't claim ownership of anything or anyone else.

As crazy as it may sound to walk all the way back to Lestrade's flat from Scotland Yard, it really isn't very far at all. It provides more than enough time for things to get done.

When I get there, I bypass any tasks I'd said I was going to do, in favor of rushing upstairs (after saying a perfunctory (and pointless) hello to Mrs. Lestrade). Well, I'd PLANNED on rushing upstairs. Before I could conduct more sensitive business, Mrs. Lestrade attempts to comfort me with tea. Apparently Lestrade felt the need to inform the entire world that Sherlock had hit a girl.

Despite my annoyance, I refuse as politely as I can, explaining that I really just need to be alone for a bit. She again offers tea, and I refuse (not as politely this time). Finally, I'm able to escape.

Once I've shut the door, I check my phone. As soon as I pull it out, it starts to ring. Frowning, I glance at the caller ID and then answer: "Why are you calling? You know I prefer to text." It takes a minute or so for him to reply. "Police are here, ma'am. Cameras are set up too." His voice is barely trembling and I know he's afraid of either getting caught in general, or getting caught screwing up. Good. He should always remember who he's dealing with.

I lie down on my bed and set up my laptop. I watch, with a manic grin, as Sherlock gets out of a cab. "Oh, good of Lestrade to call him. Thought for sure Sherlock was a goner." I mutter.

"Where's Annabelle?" Sherlock asked after glancing around the scene. Everyone looked among each other and didn't respond. Another nail in the coffin...how is she orchestrating this without being here? She must be doing it remotely somehow... He stored the thought away in his mind palace and then sought out Lestrade.

As soon as Sherlock approached, Lestrade tried very hard to look at anything but Sherlock. "Jumper," Lestrade said grimly before Sherlock could say anything. "Mmm," the detective responded absently, already absorbed by the body in front of him.

For a fall, the body was remarkably clean. There were no external signs of injury...wait, yes there were. The victim's chest was horrifically deformed. "Died of a pneumothorax," concluded Sherlock after a few minutes.

Lestrade risked a quick, incredulous glance at him before averting his eyes. "How do you know?" He asked, genuinely curious. Sherlock huffed a breath and stood up, now over the body.

"Look at the state of his chest. Severe deformity, likely due to multiple rib fractures. One of the biggest risks of a rib fracture is the possibility of a punctured lung. Based on the chest deformity, at least one of the rib fractures caused a collapsed lung which ended his life. But the lack of other external injuries is very odd. Considering he likely fell at least three stories, he should have more injuries, at least some limb fractures or bruising."

Lestrade frowned at this and took another look at the body. "You're right," he said quietly. Then he saw something. "Sherlock, look at what he's holding." The detective followed Lestrade's gaze and his eyes gleamed with interest. A cell phone, an iPhone to be precise, with no case. It didn't even have a scratch.

"But that's impossible." Donovan interjected.

Sherlock turned to glare at her and said, in a deceptively pleasant tone: "Nothing is impossible, except apparently, your inability to not open your mouth unless asked to."

She sneered at him, but didn't say anything else.

They were all interrupted by John's arrival. He nodded at Donovan and Lestrade, and did his best to not acknowledge Sherlock. When he saw their victim, he muttered an awed "Jesus," under his breath.

"Yeah," Lestrade said quietly. "Bloody awful way to go."

Sherlock just stared when John pushed past him and crouched down to examine the body. "Definitely a pneumothorax," John declared after a few minutes. Lestrade chanced a look at Sherlock and rolled his eyes when the detective smirked at him.

"How the hell did he not get any other scratches on him?" John asked, obviously perplexed.

"Obvious," Sherlock snorted dismissively. Both Greg and John rolled their eyes but otherwise did not respond.

"He didn't really fall from that window," Sherlock huffed in an exasperated tone of voice. "That would be impossible, judging by the lack of other lacerations to his extremities."

"The flat upstairs was completely trashed, Sherlock, there was broken glass, furniture toppled over...hell, there were a few holes in the walls!" Lestrade exclaimed, gesturing to the shattered window upstairs.

"Show me on the body." Retorted the detective.

"What?" The detective inspector just gaped at him.

"Show me the glass, show me the scrapes from where he punched the wall. I need evidence, don't you see!?" He started to pace, frantically running his hands through his hair.

"Calm down," John said, more sharply than he'd intended, but dammit Sherlock was starting to make him lose his temper.

"Don't," snapped Sherlock, glaring at him. He turned his attention quickly back to Lestrade. "I need to see the flat,"

"Alright then," Lestrade frowned a little, but moved to go prep the flat.

"Sherlock..." John took a deep breath and forced himself to make eye contact with the detective.

"Not now John," Sherlock said dismissively. "I'm on a case." He brushed past John and followed Lestrade up to the victim's flat.

John sighed, and, despite his brain telling him how bad an idea this was, followed the detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not to try to sound like a bitch or anything, but guys? I've had to do a ton of research for this story. I'd really really appreciate reviews so I know how y'all like it. Please review and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	11. In Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING! *confetti rains down* And a shout-out, as promised, to anotherfangirlhere, who correctly identified that chapter 3's title (An American Intern in New Scotland Yard) was stolen from the novel A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. FOUR FOR YOU anotherfangirlhere, YOU GO anotherfangirlhere!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. Sorry to disappoint.

The three men carefully entered the living room of their victim's flat. John and Lestrade stood back a little and allowed Sherlock to deduce.

And there was a lot to deduce.

True to Lestrade's word, the room was absolutely destroyed. Glass on the floor, splintered wood from broken chairs, stuffing from sofa cushions still falling like snow...everything was virtually ruined.

"Have you interviewed the neighbors?" Sherlock asked, turning to face Lestrade.

The detective inspector nodded. "Only two, elderly couple. Everyone else was working or out when it happened. The couple said they only heard noise for around ten minutes and then they heard a crash."

Growling, Sherlock whirled around and stared at the damage in disbelief. "Ten minutes is not enough time to do even half of this damage." He sighed. "Fine then. Assuming this is only one person-"

"There's only one body," John pointed out.

Sherlock paused, rolled his eyes, and continued. "How and why would one person do this to their own flat?" When he got no response from either John or Lestrade, he sighed heavily. "Either he was on some sort of drug or he had a psychotic break likely caused by some kind of emotional trauma. We need everything you can find on his background, absolutely everything."

Lestrade just stared, then nodded slowly before leaving the room.

"I'm going to join him," John said, pointing down the stairs. "We need to discuss this morning in further detail." His voice was sharp, but he wasn't shouting. If Sherlock was a feeling sort of man, he would've felt intimidated. But as it was, Sherlock just shrugged.

"Fine." He turned away, and John left.

* * *

 

"Perfect. John, you've played right into my hands," I say to myself with a grin. It fades as I watch Sherlock scramble around the flat looking for the letter he knows is there.

I roll my eyes. "Come on, Mr. Holmes. It's so obvious. Even John could find it if you let him."

Finally, I see him stop. "There you go. Thank you," I smile pleasantly.

* * *

 

He mentally berated himself when he saw the chair. It was the only thing in the flat that wasn't destroyed or else toppled over. And for God's sake, it had a bright orange blanket hanging on it. "Subtle," he said sarcastically.

Sherlock lifted the blanket carefully and took out the envelope. He stared at it for a few minutes before carefully slicing it open.

* * *

 

_Hello. Are you ready for more of the story?_

_This is a continuation of the second story of Sir Boast-A-Lot._

_Now that Sir Boast-A-Lot's page had been mysteriously killed, the only thing Sir Boast-A-Lot had to do was the work. He relied on the local constable to provide him with local dragon sightings. But one day, Sir Boast-A-Lot couldn't find the constable. No one else seemed to know where he was._

_How very strange._

_P.S: You'll remember his name now, won't you?_

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, the penmanship was exactly the same as the last letter. Same type of envelope, same seal, everything was identical.

Sherlock glanced out of the broken window and was pleased to see that John and Lestrade were still deep in conversation. For the first time, he was grateful not to have an audience. His hands were trembling so badly that both John and Lestrade would have noticed it almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that you tell me what you think. I really love seeing that people cared enough to comment on this story, it means a lot.
> 
> Please review and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	12. Speedball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all so much for your kind reviews! I'm very happy you're enjoying this story, I know I'm having fun writing it!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I only own Annabelle.

* * *

The day after he'd examined the flat, Sherlock was busy analyzing the man's (Geoffrey Walker) toxicology report at Bart's.

So far, he'd found a recreational amount of cocaine, not his personal seven percent solution though. What a shame, would have been a nice touch.

He was so busy working that, as per usual, he didn't hear Molly come into the lab.

"Anything interesting?" She asked him, her tone mildly curious.

"Mmm, just a small amount of cocaine," he said dismissively. When she didn't say anything else, he looked up and found her staring at him. "Are you alright, Molly?"

"Yeah!" The pathologist said in a falsely cheerful tone. "I'm fine, _I_ didn't get slapped yesterday." Her face contorted into a glare.

Sherlock was quiet for a minute. "Ah." He said finally.

"'Ah'? You slapped my assistant yesterday and all you can say is 'ah'?" Molly quirked a brow at him, clearly still angry.

He paused. "Yes. She provoked me." He didn't say anything further and returned to the microscope.

Molly let out a harsh breath through her nose and shook her head. She gave Sherlock a final glare before she left the room.

* * *

"AH-HA!"

Molly nearly dropped her scalpel into her patient's abdominal cavity. She sighed, put down the scalpel on the instrument table, and went into the lab. "What is it?" She demanded, heart pounding from the adrenaline rush.

"He wasn't just on cocaine, he was on a methamphetamine as well! He must have speedballed, explains the level of rage and the his sudden death. He must have died of a heart attack caused both by the effects of the drugs in addition to the fluid surrounding his heart from the pneumothorax."

She stared at him for a few minutes and then just walked away. Before she left though, she stuck her head back through the door. "She could always still press charges against you, you know."

"Oh no," came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Sherlock flinched.

"I don't want to cause anyone any more trouble. Besides, it was a long day and I'm sure your nerves were absolutely fried, right Sherlock?" Annabelle smiled sunnily at him.

He ground his teeth together and spit out: "Yes. It was stress-induced."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Because you have to deal with so much stress, Sherlock. Can't you just delete it?"

He ignored her in favor of beginning to mutter to himself. "This one has a name, I know his name, not the first one though...the name means _something_ , but what?" His eyes shot to Annabelle's face.

She smiled uncertainly and shrugged a little. "I have no idea. My ten years of American education must be showing; we don't learn the meanings behind peoples' names."

Molly snickered from behind her, which infuriated Sherlock enough that he slammed off of the stool and stormed out of the room.

Annabelle frowned a bit and glanced between the stool and the door. "Should I-?"

"No," Molly cut her off. "Definitely not worth it. He's a bit mad lately, obviously." She gestured at Annabelle's cheek.

As though just remembering the now-appearing bruise, Annabelle lightly pressed her palm to it and winced a little. Molly noticed and frowned.

"Listen, Annabelle," Molly's voice was much more gentle now that she and Annabelle were alone. "I'm really sorry for what he's done and said to you lately. He's always been like that, and he was better for a while...but it's like there's something about _you_ that sets him off." She paused and then gasped. "Not that it's your fault or anything! Oh God, I'm so sorry! I just mean...you two mix like oil and water, is all."

Annabelle laughed a little. "Molly, it's fine. I've noticed, trust me. I'm used to people not liking me very much though. I usually scare them off." She grinned playfully, but there was just a hint of malice in it. Nothing Molly would ever be able to detect though.

"Hey," said Molly suddenly after a moment or two. "I know this is really unprofessional, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go on a coffee run with me? You definitely deserve a break after everything you've gone through."

"I'd love to," answered Annabelle, already making her way out the door.

* * *

Poor, naive Molly. Just as idiotic as the rest of them.

At least, it seems that way to me. It did for Sherlock once, too. But Molly was the one who helped him pull 'it' off. There's something special about her that not even Jim Moriarty could recognize.

Discounting Molly Hooper was probably the biggest mistake my father ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sherlock is right, you know. About the name, that is. If anyone can correctly tell me in a review, why the victim is named Geoffrey specifically, you get a shout out.
> 
> And don't worry, Sherlock knows Lestrade's first name isn't Geoffrey.
> 
> Probably.
> 
> Please review and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	13. Alone is All I Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello beautiful people!
> 
> No one's gotten the answer of Geoffrey's name right yet. Here's a hint: take Sherlock's words literally. What does it mean? I won't post the answer 'til someone gets it right!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I only own Annabelle, and even that's stretching it. Pretty please don't sue me!

Sherlock was lying on the sofa when John entered the flat. "Ah, John," he said, not moving other then to open his eyes and sit up.

John was quiet for a long, long time. He never broke eye contact with Sherlock, not even when he was putting away his coat.

"We need to talk about today, Sherlock." John said after a few more minutes of silence.

Petulantly, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Must we? I already know you're angry at me, _any_ fool could see that, even Anderson."

It took all of John's self control, and a count to ten with clenched fists, to resist punching Sherlock. "Yes, Sherlock, we _do_ need to talk about it. I don't think you're quite grasping the magnitude of this situation. At _all_."

Huffing, Sherlock bounded up off of the sofa and started to pace. "John, I've told you at least five times now, she is not at all what you think she is. What _any_ of you think she is." He started gesturing wildly, not exactly coherently, more flitting his hands around.

"Listen to me, you git!" John growled suddenly. Sherlock stopped, shutting his mouth. "I don't blame you, you know. For being worried about Moriarty coming back. I don't, not at all. But now you're getting into the realm of paranoia. Annabelle is-"

"Don't," Sherlock hissed. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me what a wonderful person she is because she _isn't_. And don't ever insinuate that I operate on the level of paranoia and fear, John. I don't, and I never have. Not even at Baskerville. He is not dead, I've told you that ever since I came back! I really thought you were smarter than this."

John took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before sighing heavily. "Look, Sherlock." He paused and forced himself to make eye contact with the clearly livid detective. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I've insulted you or...whatever it is I just did to upset you. I just want to try to understand why you've been acting this way."

For a few tense minutes, Sherlock studied the doctor, almost as though seeing him, _truly_ seeing him, for the first time. "It's fine," he eventually said, stiffly. "I can't...I can't explain it to you though, you'll just think I'm more of a madman than you already think I am."

Quietly, John stepped around the detective and sat down in his chair. He forced himself to look open and relaxed. "Try me," he said simply.

So Sherlock started talking.

* * *

"Ahh, perfect," I smile, laying back on my bed as I watch Sherlock attempt to explain himself. This was _too_ easy. John won't be convinced, that much I'm certain of. I've got him too wrapped around my pretty little finger.

I can't help but start laughing when I see that Sherlock's little tirade is over and John is just staring at him in disbelief. "Oh, what a pity," I manage after I've calmed down a little. "He doesn't _believe_ you, Sherlock." I give the screen of my laptop a mock frown, then frown for real when my phone starts to vibrate.

As much as I hate to miss the rest of the action in 221B, I close the lid on my computer and answer my cell. "Hi, Mom," I say, cheerfully.

"Hi sweetheart! How is everything going over there?"

I smile widely. "Really, really great Mom. I feel like this is...like it's where I'm supposed to be right now, you know?"

My mom and I are really close. A lot closer than a lot of my other friends are with their moms. She's been calling at least twice a day and texts me more often than I can count, but it's never annoyed me. After all, I'm all she has left. And she's all I have left.

Sometimes I feel bad that she doesn't know what I'm really doing here. I know I have to protect her, but I feel almost guilty lying to her.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please review and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	14. It Wasn't Working for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all such sweethearts! Thank you so much for your kind reviews, they make my day. I'm so sorry this update has taken so long, I've been really busy/lazy, so thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter does contain some pretty graphic descriptions of a dead body. Reader discretion is advised, my doves!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but Annabelle. Please don't sue me!

After a few minutes of tense silence, Sherlock's face fell. "You don't believe me," he said flatly.

John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock cut him off. "I should have guessed." His face was twisted into a sneer. "Of course you don't believe the sociopath, even if he is your _best friend_."

Before he could go on, Mrs. Hudson came through the door, leading a very grim looking Lestrade. "Woo-hoo! Boys, you've got a visitor." She left without another word, other than to look at John and Sherlock and smile indulgently.

John sighed but stood up and looked at Greg expectantly.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock spoke at the same time as the DI: "There's been another one." Sherlock let out a disgruntled snort before he went to get his coat and scarf. "You know, Lestrade, you don't really have to _tell_ me that someone else is dead. I am capable of making inferences, even deductions, surprising as that may seem."

John bit his lip to stifle a laugh. He was still pretty concerned about Sherlock, and with good reason, but for now he decided it was best to just let it go.

After all, the game was on.

* * *

"I'll warn you two now, this is a pretty gruesome one, even by your standards." Lestrade told them before letting them in to see the body.

Sherlock didn't say anything, though John did stop and take several deep breaths before they walked into the kitchen of _that_ fish and chip shop, the one just off Marylebone Road.

When they got inside, John turned whiter than Sherlock. There wasn't a lot of blood, no; in fact there wasn't _any_ , but what they saw was utterly...horrific.

The body was a woman, mid-30s, nothing else special about her, at least to John. Except for one, teensy little detail.

There seemed to be a gaping hole where her mouth should have been. It would've been bad enough if the hole had been clean, but there were bits of flesh still hanging on in thin strings of skin and muscle. "Jesus," muttered the doctor.

Sherlock didn't seem fazed, and just motioned John forward to join him crouching next to the body. "What killed her?" Sherlock asked, in a tone implying that he himself knew exactly what had happened.

John spent a few minutes quietly examining the body, saving the carnage for last. When he got there, he peered inside of the hole carefully. "It looks like," he began, only a little shakily. "Her facial and transverse facial arteries were both severed. My best guess is that she bled out."

Sherlock nodded, looking satisfied in a grim sort of way. "They removed her mouth, why?" He crouched down next to her face, looking closely at the wound. "Symbolism, surely, but of what? She's dead, no need to keep her quiet."

Lestrade, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway, grimaced. "Maybe it was like when the Bible came about?" Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at the DI. "Y'know, I heard they used to cut out the tongues of blasphemers. Sometimes they'd cut their lips off too."

Sherlock appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. "She doesn't have any sort of religious affiliation." He said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

John rolled his eyes. "It's called symbolism, Sherlock, it doesn't have to be literal."

The detective shot him a glare. "I know that," he hissed through his teeth. "This is very important, clearly this _means_ something." He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, stood up, and stalked out of the room.

* * *

I'm not surprised at Sherlock's frustration. I had planned this one _very_ carefully, but I'm still rather disappointed he hadn't made any kind of comment regarding our...unfortunate victim.

Then again, John is already convinced he's paranoid. Maybe Sherlock Holmes cares enough about what people think of him to not want Greg Lestrade to think the same.

I focus my attention on the screen again when Sherlock pulls out an envelope from his pocket. I smile. "So, you did find it then. Good work, Sherlock."

* * *

He ripped open the envelope this time, paying no mind to the shreds of paper on the floor of the cab he now sat in. He also ignored the cab driver's puzzled look in the rearview mirror.

* * *

_Hello. Are you ready for more of the story?_

_This is the continuation of the second story of Sir-Boast-A-Lot._

_Now that Sir-Boast-A-Lot was alone in his fight against the dragons, he realized he needed someone to trust and count on. He knew a very quiet alchemist who admired him greatly. And so, he went to the alchemist for help._

_Day after day they spoke, trying to find new ways to destroy the dragons. The alchemist always praised Sir-Boast-A-Lot, but he ignored her, time and time again. Until one day, when Sir-Boast-A-Lot visited the alchemist's shop, and found her gone. He searched for a long time, but he never found her._

_The end._

_PS: She must not have counted after all...was her mouth big enough for you this time?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! Thank you so much for reading and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	15. Off the Deep End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No one's figured out the meaning behind our unfortunate second victim's name yet. I won't spoil it quite yet, but keep trying!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All I own is Annabelle. Please don't sue me.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide features in this chapter. Bear that in mind, beautiful readers!

I'm standing on the sidewalk outside the block of flats where a new body lies on a floor, dead. This time, though, it was not put there by my hand. At least, that's the way it appears.

I fight the urge to smile when I see a cab pull up. Sherlock dashes out immediately, and John rolls his eyes, pays the cabbie, and follows.

"Annabelle," he says, smiling broadly at me. I return it, hesitantly because I don't want to lessen the impact of a _suicide_ , do I?

No. Of course not.

Sherlock ignores me, or he does until he realizes Lestrade isn't standing outside too. I notice his puzzled glances and jerk my head in the direction of the building. "He's upstairs with the body already," I tell them.

"Show us," snaps the detective in a short voice. John glares at him, then gives me an apologetic look. I just shrug and start walking into the apartment.

There's a bit of a delay before the two of them make it inside (John is probably telling him off for being rude to me), so I take the opportunity to slip a small, round, white pill under my tongue. It should kick in at precisely the right time. It must. Today, I've calculated everything.

Today, everything will go _exactly_ the way I plan.

When John and Sherlock finally rejoin me, I start making my way up the (many) flights of stairs to the floor where the victim is. "Why are you here, Sherlock?" I ask, careful to keep my tone in the realm of 'politely curious'. He doesn't answer.

John lets out an exasperated sigh. "Back when I first met him," he begins, moving closer to me and speaking in a quiet voice. "He was working a case that looked like serial suicides. It turns out they were all poisoned." I gasp in horror, and widen my eyes. "From that point on, even if the Yard is absolutely positive it's a suicide, they call Sherlock. Just in case."

I nod, then smile in understanding. "I read about that before I got here," I explain. John doesn't notice Sherlock go completely still on the second to last step.

But I do.

* * *

Lestrade stood grimly in front of the pool of blood surrounding the head of a dead man. He shook his head sadly, then looked up when he heard voices on the stairwell.

Annabelle came through the door first, followed by Sherlock, then John. "They're here, sir," she said quietly. Greg nodded.

This didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary for a suicide. There was a man lying on the floor, a pool of slowly drying blood surrounding his head. He had a pistol clutched tightly in his right hand, and there was...considerable _gore_ on one side of his face.

For the second time that week, John's mouth went hard. He let out a long, hard breath through his nose. Suicide wasn't an easy thing for him to see. It made him remember how close he'd come to the same end all those years ago.

Sherlock wasted no time in crouching down and beginning his examinations. Immediately he zeroed in on the gun in the man's hand.

"Cadaveric spasm," he said immediately. "Occurs when someone's clutching something while dying. Obviously he was holding the gun when he died and-"

He was interrupted by a squeak from Annabelle, whose face was now whiter than even John's. Her jaw was twitching, and in another second she sprinted from the room. John swore under his breath and ran after her.

When he got outside, he heard Annabelle retching before he saw her. She was vomiting into a conveniently placed patch of shrubbery. Instinctively he moved behind her and kept her hair off of her neck so she wouldn't throw up on it, rubbing her back soothingly and murmuring meaningless words of comfort.

When she finished, she grimaced at the mess. "Sorry," she croaked, voice raw from stomach acid. He shook his head. "It happens to the best of us," he said simply. "Some of the best doctors I know almost fainted during their first dissection."

She smiled at him, weakly, and he frowned just a little. "Annabelle, are you alright? You don't seem like the type to be easily bothered by this kind of stuff."

Annabelle swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and she inhaled shakily. "I don't think this was the best crime scene to come to," she started simply. "My dad, according to what my mom's said..." Tears formed in her eyes, and she furiously rubbed them away. "He...when he died, he shot himself. Just like that guy."

John stared at her, mouth agape. "Oh my God." He shook his head. "I can't believe Greg let you come out here for this,"

She laughed shakily. "I wanted to come. I think I wanted to prove that I could handle it now. Apparently I can't."

He moved closer and cautiously put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, sincerely. "I can't...I can't imagine how hard this must be for you."

She shrugged a little. "It'll pass," she said, sounding like she was trying just a little too hard to sound confident. After taking a deep breath, she gently shrugged off John's hand and turned to him. "I think," She took another breath. "I think it's because he looked like my dad, too. A lot like him, really."

John took the liberty of taking her gently by the wrist. She smiled softly and allowed him to lead her to the edge of the sidewalk. They both sat, and he looked at her, careful to keep his expression warm and open.

"When my dad died," Annabelle began. "I was only eleven. I'd never had somebody close to me die before, so it was traumatizing enough, but he was my _dad_." She stopped, and her voice was trembling when she started again. "We...we'd always been close. Closer than my mom and I. He used to..." She smiled. "When he came to visit me, it was always the second weekend of the month. We'd go out for pizza, the same restaurant every time."

"So, wait," John interrupted. "You didn't live with him?"

She shook her head. "My parents were never married, and they liked having their own separate lives, I guess." She shrugged. "It never really bothered me much. I knew they both loved me, and that was enough."

He just nodded thoughtfully, saying nothing. She continued. "After he died...I went what you might call 'off the deep end'. I was inconsolable for months. I didn't go to school, and when I did I'd break down in the middle of class and my mom would have to come and pick me up. I think eventually she knew I wasn't coping well enough on my own, so she took me to a therapist."

"Did it help?" John asked. "I was in therapy too but I honestly don't think it helped much."

She nodded. "A lot, really. My therapist told me how important it was for me to plan my future, to not let myself waste away and throw away all the things I'd worked so hard to achieve. That's why I'm here now. I'd always wanted to go into law enforcement like my mom, and without therapy I would've let that dream slip through my fingers."

He studied her. "You said you were 16, right?"

"Yeah," she said. "And this year has been especially hard. It'll be five years in August...right before I leave to go home, as a matter of fact."

John started to say something, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I'm going to take a walk," she said, calmly. "I really need to clear my head."

He frowned at her as she started to walk away. "Annabelle!" He called. She turned and looked at him, expression slightly irritated. "Do you want me to come with you?"

She shook her head. "No, John, thanks. I think it's best if I'm alone right now." Without another word she kept walking down the street, and John started to go back inside.

That is, until he heard a violent scuffle coming from down the sidewalk.

"Shit," he growled, turning on his heel and running full pelt to where he saw two thugs grabbing at Annabelle.

* * *

As soon as I pass the alley, I brush my hair out of my face. Right on cue, two of my...companions, let's call them, spur themselves into action.

They make a grab for me, and I grunt, as though they've struck me. I hear John start to run towards us, and immediately I stop and look calm. When he gets a few feet away, my captors pull out pistols and one holds it to my head. John looks horrified, but I just smile sadly at him. "No fear, John," I say, my voice trembling just a little. They turn me around and haul me around the corner, and I hear John at my heels. I let myself smile just a little. _So_ predictable, I think.

* * *

Sherlock was busy trying to explain to Lestrade exactly how he'd come to his conclusions, when he saw a blur of motion outside. He missed it, but then he saw another blur. Lestrade frowned when the detective stopped talking, but shrugged and ignored it.

When Sherlock looked out the window he saw...John? John was sprinting around the corner, looking high on adrenaline and fear. Without another word, Sherlock left the room and quickly descended onto the street level.

* * *

They stop, and John approaches, looking angrier than I've ever seen him. "One of the best Detective Inspectors at Scotland Yard is right upstairs," he says carefully, voice icy cold and deadly quiet. "And unless you'd like to meet him personally, I suggest you let her go. Now."

They both freeze, and the speed at which they push me into the street gives me vertigo. I'm disoriented and I have to stagger a little before I maintain my balance. It's no matter. I planned for this, after all.

* * *

Sherlock made it outside just in time to see a car come careening directly toward Annabelle. Later, he swore he'd never seen John move _that_ quickly.

The sickening crunch of shattered bone made the detective wince, and as soon as John spotted him, Sherlock got roped into medical duty.

"I need you to keep her still, Sherlock. We don't know if she injured her spine or not," said John in a tight, controlled voice that left no room for argument.

"Annabelle? Annabelle I need you to stay awake for me," pleaded John, in that same harsh voice, now modulated a little to be comforting.

She didn't answer, and for just a moment Sherlock thought she smirked at him. He looked at John but saw no kind of response on his face, so he let it go and did as he was told, staying quiet and watching Annabelle carefully.

* * *

I'm not startled when the car hits me. I barely wince at the burning pain as my right arm is shattered by the impact. I am surprised, though, by the sheer speed at which I hit the ground. I feel my head bounce on the pavement, and then I see John above me.

I can't manage words, and I can feel my vision darkening. Moments before I lose consciousness, I see Sherlock. Despite the pain, I turn my head towards him, ever so slightly, and I _smirk_.

I am rewarded by his look of horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please review guys! Thank you so much for reading and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


	16. Miscalculations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I AM SO SORRY YOU GUYS, PLEASE FORGIVE ME. I haven't updated this story in literally forever and I have no excuse. I'm so so so sorry! The worst part is that this is kind of a filler chapter, so nothing super exciting happens either, :c I apologize and promise things will be updated faster from now on!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is literally the only thing I own. Please don't sue me.

When I wake up, the first thing I realize is that I must be in a hospital.  _Shit_ , I think, running a hand slowly over my aching head. I must have miscalculated the speed of the car that hit me. I certainly hadn't intended to give myself a concussion, much less knock myself unconscious.

Really though, I should be impressed with my employees. Landing in the hospital provides me with the perfect opportunity to look as innocent as possible.

I crack my eyes open, then shut them. God, could these lights be any brighter? In spite of myself, I groan aloud.

"Annabelle?" I startle a little when I hear John speak. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here with me. I'd thought that Sherlock would have kept him back, but then I remember...John thinks he's mad.

I start to smile but turn it into a grimace quickly enough that John won't notice. "Hi," I whisper, my voice rough and dry. My eyes open, slowly, but eventually I tolerate the light enough to keep them fully open.

"Here," John turns for a minute, then produces a small styrofoam cup. He reaches in and takes out an ice chip. "Open for me," His voice is calm, gentle. As much as it pains me to think, John must be a remarkable doctor.

I oblige him, and I sigh in relief as the cold liquid soothes my aching throat.

"What happened?" I ask, voice stronger after more ice chips.

John sits back a little, looking troubled, He's quiet for a long moment, as if he's deciding whether or not to tell me. Eventually, he sets his jaw and sighs. "You were hit by a car."

I gape at him. "What?" I sound horrified, even to my ears.

"Those guys that tried to kidnap you threw you right into its' path. Jesus Annabelle," He runs a hand through his hair. "You're lucky you got away with a fractured radius and a concussion. You could've easily been killed."

Looking at him, I resolve to be more careful. He's smart, but not in the way Sherlock is. Sherlock is brash, loud, a show off. John's intelligence is quiet and reserved, like he is. I nod at him and carefully move my arm to examine it more closely.

I'd never broken a bone before, and this is my first cast. Of course I'd had friends with casts, but this is my first personal experience.

"Shouldn't it hurt?" I ask quizzically.

John shakes his head. "Probably not," he answers. "You're on some decent pain meds right now, and it was a clean break, no surgery required."

I almost frown in disappointment. Surgery would have made everything even easier, but I repress the urge. Normalcy, Annabelle, I remind myself.

At that precise moment (what impeccable timing), a nurse walks into the room. "Ms. Green?"

"Yeah," I say quietly, suddenly nervous.

"How is your pain?" Her voice is soothing and her face is reassuring.

I think for a minute and try to sit up a little. I wince, and a frown creases her brow. "Not so great," I manage through gritted teeth.

"Poor love," she murmurs, scurrying out of the room. When she comes back she's holding a bag of clear fluid and a barcode scanner. She scans my wrist band before attaching the bag to the IV pole next to my bed and connects me to it. "Morphine," she says, noticing my curious expression.

"Thank you," I say sincerely. I lie back and take in a slow, deep breath. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you...I mean...would you mind, um, staying here tonight? I-I've never been in the hospital before." I bite my lip a little.

His expression is fond and it's enough to make me want to vomit. "Of course I'll stay," he says quietly. "Of course."

He says something else, but the drug flowing through my veins puts me under before I hear it.

* * *

When I open my eyes again, the room is dark. My jacket is laying over the bed rail next to me, and just past the bed, John is asleep in the hard plastic visitor's chair.  _Good_ , I sigh quietly with relief. I reach carefully into the pocket of my jeans and produce the ancient phone I only use to communicate with my employees. The clock reads 2:14 AM. Pressing the first speed dial button, I put it to my ear.

When he answers, I keep my voice quiet. "Is she ready?"

His voice is smug. "Yes ma'am."

"Good," I smile. "Let's begin."

She doesn't know why they're doing this to her.

She doesn't know where she is, or who they are. It is terrifying.

More terrifying, however, is whatever the hell they put in her tea before she was tied up.

All she knows, now, is that she can't feel anything below her chest. She cannot speak, cannot fight the ropes that loosely bind her wrists and ankles. Already she is having trouble breathing; can feel her heart struggling to beat.

There is a man, sitting in the chair opposite her. All he does is watch. Now, though, he pulls out a phone and speaks, then presses a button and holds it out to her.

"I'm sorry," says the voice on the phone. It sounds like a woman. "I'm sorry it was you, who had to do this. You've done me a great service, though."

And suddenly she can't take in a deep breath, which quickly progresses to no breathing at all.

As she loses consciousness for the last time, she hears the voice on the phone sigh. "Pity," it says. "I'd hoped she'd last longer."

She is gone.

* * *

I hang up and put the phone back in my pocket. Then I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out my personal phone. I dial, and my mom answers on the third ring. "Hi sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," I say in a voice barely above a whisper. I glance over at John. He's still asleep. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, honey. It's awfully quiet around here without you. How're things with Greg?" She's trying hard to sound excited for me, I know. She'd had a hard time letting me go the day I flew to London.

"Great," I say, and I mean it. "There's been a lot of weird stuff going on here though. Bizarre deaths, I mean."  _Of course,_  I think,  _I know exactly what happened to each and every one of them._

"Oh really?" Mom sounds surprised. "I never thought of London as a particularly dangerous place."

I laugh, then wince as I notice the sound has woken John. "Hey, Mom, I've gotta go. I'm going to try and get some sleep."

"Alright, honey. I'll talk to you soon. Be safe, I love you."

"I love you too Mom." I end the call and turn to face John. "Sorry John."

He blinks tiredly and stretches, groaning, obviously uncomfortable from sleeping in such an odd position. "It's fine," he yawns. He stands up slowly, then turns to face me. "Why are you awake? It's," He glances at the clock and sighs. "2:45 in the bloody morning."

"I think the morphine probably wore off," I answer sheepishly, looking embarrassed.

John sighs. "I'm going to go to the loo, and then see if I can get a nurse to move a cot or something in here for the rest of the night. Do you need anything?"

I shake my head. "No, John, I'm OK. I'm going to try and go back to sleep." I roll to my side gingerly, careful not to jostle my arm much.

As soon as I'm sure John is gone, I smile. This went better than I  _ever_  expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please review and...
> 
> DFTBA darlings, :)


End file.
